


Burn

by 89JadedPictures



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 05:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/89JadedPictures/pseuds/89JadedPictures
Summary: Ginevra Weasley has been charged and arrested for being a witch. Draco Malfoy, the son of Wiltshire’s prodigious Judge, Lucius Malfoy, has been tasked to visit her and make her confess her guilt.





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I do not own Harry Potter or ITM.

“The Shrieking Shack”, so fondly named by the locals who heard the screams that oft came from within, loomed high over the head of Draco Malfoy as he exited his carriage into the foot-high snow; a silver cane in one hand, a satchel full of supplies in the other, his mind centered on the jail’s one inmate.

Draco, who was not yet 23, had recently been given a promotion by his father, Lucius Malfoy, a renowned Protestant judge. When the elder Malfoy man had been given jurisdictional control over Hogsmeade, Scotland, which England still held in her hands, he’d given his one and only son the job he himself had worked so hard to attain: Witch Hunter.

So, as was customary, Draco would do his first official job without being monitored by his mentor, his father in this case. He had followed the elder Malfoy around during integrations and torturing for nearly five years, and this day, coincidentally, marked that anniversary. He was happy to be going at it alone. His father had taught him many things over the course of a half decade, and, regrettably, many of those things could be listed under “Things NOT to Do”.

Lucius was a savage to those who caught his… professional eye, and Draco had been present during one hundred and four of those instances, and in at least half of them the pupil would have gone about it in an entirely different way. He was ready for the opportunity to try his own methods, which he considered a civil conversation. If it was one thing Draco Malfoy knew, it was that words were just as great a weapon as swords. With a well placed phrase and a studied mien, he could extract information quite easily.

With new-found independence the Hunter reached out to pull the cord to ring the bell, his intention to interview one Ginevra Weasley so as to decide her guilt or innocence in practicing witchcraft. Her father worked for Draco’s, though distantly, and Draco regretted to have to bring such affairs to light, but his father knew that he should be the one to deal with the girl’s interrogation. Arthur Weasley, apparently, had no enemies amongst his peers at the Ministry, so no one could be trusted to give the proper verdict.

That is, no one but a Malfoy.

Opening the door to allow him entrance, Horace Slughorn nodded pleasantly to Draco, saying, “Good day, Master Malfoy. You arrived precisely on time.”

“Indeed,” Draco responded blandly. He did not care for the Warden of the facility. He was… dodgy to Draco, but no one else had seemed to catch on to this. “Has the prisoner awoken?”

Slughorn nodded again. “Yes. Some hours ago.”

“Her eating schedule? Has it been enforced?” Draco asked as Slughorn began to lead the younger man through the familiar halls, lined with barred, unused rooms. The room they were headed to was at the back of the building, the main interrogation room. The torture chambers were below, with the cells, so that the inmates could hear it all.

“She has been allotted meager servings, sir. She did not want to eat at first, but she surely does now. We have not fed her today, so she should be willing to listen,” Slughorn answered.

The Witch Hunter nodded, then asked, “Her water intake?”

“A pint a day.”

“Her mental state?”

“Stable… Today.”

Draco raised an inquisitorial brow. “Does she have episodes?”

“Not often, but yes.”

“Have you witnessed her magic during these instances?”

Slughorn stopped dead in his tracks, Draco did as well, and the blonde watched the elder man as his mind seemed to search for adequate words. Turning to face the Hunter, Slughorn warned, “Do not look into her eyes.”

“Her eyes?” Draco asked, stricken with worry over the man’s own mental state. ‘How peculiar…’ the Hunter thought.

“Yes. She”- Slughorn paused to lick his lips nervously- “She has eyes that look into your soul. They see- your sins, and know your measure… as a man, as a man of God, of your very being.”

Both of Draco’s brows drew up as the men ended his eerie, paranoid statement, and he made a mental note to have the man replaced as soon as he could tell his father. Draco thanked him, and said, “The warning will be taken to heart.”

Slughorn was satisfied at this answer, and finished leading Draco to the room he was already familiar with. Upon their arriving at the room, the old man passed the younger the key to the door as well as the prisoner’s chains, and a thin file that held the woman’s information. This was the procedure; Slughorn led him to and from the room, and only interrupted when Draco said he could, signaled by a bell inside the room near the door. If anything were to come to light during an interrogation, a witness was needed to call the Aurors for immediate support.

Few ever called for backup, though. If the interrogation went badly, The Hunter would usually resort to executing the accused before calling Aurors and holding a trial. Or, at least that was how Lucius Malfoy worked, and he had taught his son to conduct business in the same fashion. Draco had always found this avenue unjust, but he would never tell his father this.

“Bring tea,” Draco ordered the Warden. “And have Dobby make us the best dish with the food I brought in my carriage. Have it served in an hour.”

Slughorn nodded, said, “Of course, sir. But- but do not hold her gaze... Her eyes are her magic.” Without another word, the old man shuffled off to the kitchens, and Draco turned to stare at the large wooden door alone.

On the other side of the door sat Draco’s fate, but how could he know this? He simply couldn’t! Unbeknownst to the Witch Hunter, he was about to meet his destiny… and he was not ready. He thought he had been, so had Lucius, but they were wrong.

Gripping the key Slughorn gave him, Draco unlocked the door and slowly pushed it open. Within was as it always had been; four walls made of stone with a fireplace to the left, a small, covered window, dim lighting from a single candle in a sconce by the door, a table with two chairs, and a suspected witch chained to the far wall. The girl cowered against the stone that she was fettered to by the ankle, the left side of her body pressed to the wall, her freckled arms crossed over her pulled up knees, and her face hidden from his sight. Her head was bowed; her long, wild, unkempt flame-red hair fell about and concealed her like a veil.

Draco’s own allowed him to see the sin in others, and as he studied the girl, he did not see anything but a broken, frightened spirit.

But that was how they all looked at first…

She did not move as Draco entered- he taking in her countenance, her dirty white nightgown- remaining quiet as he studied her and his surroundings, as well as through setting up the mild tools of his trade on the table. From his satchel he drew bound parchment and ink, quills, and a white candle; a superstition carried by hunters to keep the pureness of their faith, and the spirit of God, in the room.

Truth be told, Draco was no man of God. He did his work, and that was all. He wanted to be his father’s successor so badly- because this was his father’s wish- he pretended to be pious. He did so only to please his ruthless father, because, to Draco, God had abandoned them all long ago when the Devil and his whores were set upon the earth to bring forth mankind's extinction. What kind of God was that to believe in?

And this God’s followers? Voldemort? Tom Riddle, who led so many of these believers? What of him?

Even with his suspicion and lack of faith, Draco did as he was bid and called upon Miss Weasley at 2 p.m. sharp, the 1st of January of the year 1774, a Tuesday, simply to question her, and that was all. He prayed no more was needed, but he would resort to the basics of his training if it meant defending himself.

Eventually, after some fifteen minutes, wherein Draco sat to prepare his workspace, lighting the white candle, as well as wrote down Slughorn’s claims, he finally began to conduct his first interrogation,

“My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy… I suspect you have heard the surname before.” She said nothing. He went on, “The papers I have state you are Ginevra Weasley, only daughter of Arthur Weasley of Ottery St. Catchpole, England.” She said nothing still. He wrote this down. He said, “Is this, in fact, your name?” Nothing. “Ginevra Weasley.”

After two minute’s silence, she finally answered, “Yes.” Another moment of silence, then, “I have heard of your name. The family of Bad Faith.” She kept her face in her arms as she said this, and continued to do so as she added, “You are the sole heir of his honor, Judge Lucius Malfoy of Wiltshire, England.”

Draco wrote down her words, then he dropped his quill into his ink pot to ask, “Do you know why we are here, Miss Weasley?”, because he figured she would once again make him wait for answers.

He also decided that, with the clarity and diction of her one given answer, the woman, who most would consider low in birth despite the long lineage of her family, was well-spoken, so her ability to give him answers was not in question. It was her willingness.

But he was patient; willing to wait for the answers because he knew they would come eventually. Whether they were willing or by force depended on how long his patience was tried, so he settled back in his chair and continued to study her body language.

She gave a quiet sniffle, and a few seconds pass before she whispers, “Because someone thinks I’m a witch.”

Sitting up and grabbing the quill from the ink, he began writing again, asking, “How old are you?”

“One and twenty.”

This gave Draco pause, because he had been told she was a girl, not a woman of 21. Her file only held her name, and the names and occupations of her parents. Draco was to fill in the rest, for she had only been incarcerated a week. He asks, “You are not married?”

This was a point against her, for Draco had found many female witches were women that had passed the reasonable age of marriage, which was 16.

“No. I” –she paused, sniffled, finishes- “I- am widowed.”

Draco tilted his head at her as he stilled his hand, and asked, “What was his name?”

There was another lapse in time before she declared, “Harry James Potter.”

Draco started- nearly lost his heart through his rectum- at the news, because he’d not only been given an important first assignment, but a legendary one. His father had not told him he’d be interrogating the wife of the late Harry James Potter; revolutionary and infamous wizard. The man had died a half a month ago, during Lucius’ last hunt before his promotion to Judge, a grand affair Draco had not been cleared to be present for due to his father requesting he stay behind; for the sake of the families survival in case they didn’t make it back, was what the patriarch had claimed, which had not been an acceptable answer to the apprentice.

Still, the young Malfoy had stayed behind in wait, with the ladies, which he resented.

Draco had heard that Potter had taken a wife, but he never learned her name. He had assumed that she’d been killed in the same epic battle that had taken Potter’s life. Yet, here she sat, cowering and crying not four meters away from him. Unless she was lying, in which case, he would find out soon enough.

With a little vigilance and a silver tongue, he would know all of her lies, all of her truths, by the day’s end.

The blonde had to lick his lips before he wrote down this info, the info he now knew was either false, or had been purposefully withheld from him, then he asked, “If you are his wife, why does your paperwork say Ginevra Weasley and not Ginevra Potter?”

“I don’t know,” she answered flatly. “I don’t have control over your paperwork. But I assure you I am not lying.” She said all of this with her face still hidden in her arms.

He smirked at her before writing down her words and mannerisms, and decided to humor her because, to her benefit, out of all of the women Draco had watched his father interrogate over the past years, not one had ever claimed to have any romantic tie to the late wizard, nor had he heard anything concerning the man’s romantic life until he’d heard of the man’s nuptials only a week ago.

This was a significant point in her favor.

“For how long were you married before he died?” The Hunter inquired.

“Hardly a fortnight.”

Draco found this an unfortunately short amount of time, and he frowned as he wrote all of this down, momentarily losing himself in thought as he answered politely, out of habit, “My condolences.”

This, this was when she looked up at him. He was paying little attention to her movements, so when he lifted his gaze to ask the next question he was completely taken aback.  
Her eyes were as Slughorn had said. The orbs were dark, but flickered with the candles of the room, tearing through him so quickly he instantly dropped his shoulders in shock. He could not say whether or not she was weighing the worth of his soul, or whatever rot Slughorn had mumbled, but he could tell that there was something more to her than what met his eyes.

“Your condolences?” she asked, sickened, her voice laden with disdain, her beautiful eyes rimmed with tears and bottom lip trembling. “Your condolences mean nothing to me. Your father helped kill my husband, and the words that come from those of Bad Faith mean nothing to me.”

Draco couldn’t be too angry with her. She made perfect sense. If her father had killed his wife before imprisoning him, he’d have spat at his condolences as well. Her reaction to his pity was yet another point in her favor, near enough for him to conclude that it was likely she had been married to Harry Potter.

Either that, or a very good actress, and Draco could play that game.

Seeing his error- that being his own refinement and manner- his own standard of propriety- he stood, ignoring the paranoid Warden’s warning, keeping his eyes to her as he declared his truth of the situation.

“My father’s actions are not mine,” he began. “I was not present during the raid that ended your husband’s life, but you will do well to remember that Judge Malfoy and myself are different men, even if we share a similar ambition. He is garish, murderous, whereas I, who undoubtedly share these traits, have more to me than these two inherent qualities.”  
The Hunter moved around the table, his eyes still on hers as he watched for telling ticks, and turned the chair reserved for her about to sit and face her, going on, “Since I have reason to believe you have been honest with me, I will be honest with you, Miss Weasley.” She said nothing allowing him to continue. “My mother, who passed two years ago from Dragon Pox, was one of the most kind and forgiving people to ever grace God’s Earth. How my father earned the love of such a woman- for she loved the man with all of her being- will leave me puzzling the entirety of my life.

“You see, I inherited my mother’s ability to have mercy on others, something my father lacks. I will hear what you have to say, without bias, and judge you fairly… My father will not show you anything but the pyre.” She stared at him intently, her eyes never leaving his, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, speaking in a tone lower than the previous, “If you do not cooperate with me, I will be forced to call him.”

Her look darkened, and she asked, “That is your mercy? Turning me over to the hands of a monster?”

“My mercy lies in your honesty, Miss Weasley.” This was not the first time he’d spoken this simple truth, it was just the first time he’d done so to her. It was, also, not the first time someone had referred to his father as a monster. In the solitude of his mind, Draco had given Lucius this title many a time, and for reasons he didn’t like to often dwell upon. It was safer for him if he didn’t....

“Stop calling me that!” she yelled before putting her face back into her arms, fresh tears on her face.

Draco felt it. As she’d pulled her eyes from his…

He had not noticed that his body had wanted to be closer to hers, that his persona had softened, until she’d put her face down. Almost immediately after realizing this change in himself, the Hunter was on his feet and back in his first chair, confused, bewildered, and in denial, because he could not believe it- could not believe that there was someone out there capable of breaking his resolve with a mere look.

It had been so subtle, he could hardly believe it even happened at all, the man soon cursing the Warden for filling his head with such a nonsensical idea.

But still, he had to ground himself and clear his throat before asking evenly, “Then what should I call you? Mrs. Potter?”

She looked up again, and Draco was quick enough to look back down at his parchment, and she said, “Ginevra will do,” in a low growl. It was not the devil’s voice but her own. She was irate with him.

‘Good,’ he thought. He knew that the spirit of a witch was quick to anger, quick to retaliate, and if she was getting angry then he would know his verdict soon enough. Yet another point against her.

“Ginevra,” Draco began again, eyes downcast onto his earlier notes, “Have you ever intended to practice, joined others in practicing, or in any other way practiced witchcraft?”

He still did not want to admit to himself that something in him and succumbed to the woman. He could convict her on this truth alone, and have Slughorn attest to her powers before his father, but he could not admit this to Lucius; that the witch had done something to weaken him. It was unacceptable to Draco to admit this before the patriarch of his family, no matter what the man chose to do as his occupation, because Draco’s occupation would be at stake at the first sign of weakness.

She was quiet again, and Draco glanced at her long enough to register her blank expression before turning away, and she answered, “No.”

He looked up now, not so sold on Slughorn’s theory that he thought he should miss a single twitch in her face during his next question, “Did your husband, Harry James Potter, intend to practice, join others in practicing, or in any other way practice witchcraft?”

She remained as blank as a white canvas, and her eyes, those eyes, took Draco once more, the man not realizing the effects even a second time. 

She blinked once before saying, “No.”

In a softer tone than last he spoke, he questioned, “Are you implying that your husband was wrongly accused and murdered by Voldemort and his men?”

“Yes.” She answered this without missing a beat. “If you intend to wrongfully burn me, do so soon, because I will tell everyone about Voldemort’s plan to kill those who oppose him. Like Harry did. Like I do! Not in the name of God, but for his own.”

Draco had heard this before, from other- convicted- suspects, that they were being imprisoned wrongfully. That there was an underlying plot behind Lord Voldemort’s plans for England, and that they would be found guilty no matter what, because they were a threat to his Lordship in some way or another.

With his eyes glued to hers, he asked, “In what way does his Lordship think you oppose him?” Draco knew the answer to this (convicted suspects), but what was this witch’s, this beautiful witch’s, outlook on the subject?

“My Harry was the one,” she began sadly. “He was the one who was supposed to kill Voldemort. It had been rumored that a real witch,” she said “real witch” as if to imply that she and her husband were not, “prophesied Voldemort’s downfall at Harry’s hand. Your Lord, he- he killed him in our bed…” Her eyes were filled with more tears, “while I lay beside him.” Her lip quivered, but she did not look away.

Draco took all of this in and was instantaneously intrigued. He had never heard any of this before. Harry Potter being killed in his bed, and not face-to-face with Voldemort in combat as Mulciber, Goyle, and his own aunt and father had claimed? And a prophecy? That included Lord Voldemort being killed by Harry Potter?

All of these were such uniquely wild claims Draco could not help but be intrigued. Out of all of his years, he had never heard anything like it. If it were all stories, he at least wanted to hear it all out until he could find a reasonable amount of error in her tale, as was in his job description.

The Hunter dropped his quill and moved back to the chair closest her, settling slowly, his eyes on her, asking, “What is the name of this “real witch”?”

Ginevra licked her lips before saying, “Trelawny. Sybill Trelawney.”

Draco had never heard the name before. “Have you ever met her?”

“Never. I only know her name because of Harry.”

“Did he ever meet her?”

“I cannot say.” She shook her head lightly, shrugged, said, “He only spoke of her the once. I did not feel I should push him on the subject. We were not yet married.”

“Did he mention anything more about this prophecy?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “He did. But I will not be telling you what he said.”

“Why?” Draco asked, frowning. She’d told him so much already. Why stop now?

“Because it no longer matters... Harry is gone.”

Silence encompassed them, and they stared at each other- looked at one another from head to toe- before a knock at the door broke their intimate moment.

The Hunter remembered ordering the Warden to return in an hour, and was able to stand to go to the door, only to feel like a man who’d narrowly missed a trap. The six steps it took him to reach the door were filled with the awareness of how different he felt when his eyes weren’t on hers, and how that awareness should have been enough for him to call an end to the interrogation… but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so just yet.

On the other side of the door was Slughorn, as expected, with a tea tray and a platter of fruit, bread, and sausages. The old man shuffled in, set the requested items on the table, and left, all while his eyes stayed glued to the floor. When he was safely on the other side of the threshold, he turned to Draco to quickly ask, “Do you need anything else, sire?”

Draco almost told the warden to call the Aurors, the words on the tip of his tongue, but what came out instead was, “No. No, thank you. Please return in an hour.”

Slughorn nodded and left, not even glancing back. Draco could not blame him, because he now knew that Slughorn had been right, and was not, in fact, being replaced. Perhaps a career change was in store for the old man: detecting the dark arts, for the Hunter could conclude the woman’s magic did in fact lie in her eyes. But did that mean the interrogation was over? Now that he knew for certain that Ginevra Weasley was more than what she seemed..?

No, it did not. She had not yet moved to harm him, so he would entertain her stories for a little while longer, because there were some questions that Draco had been asking himself over the course of the past fortnight. Most of it was suspicion, doubt… He was already guilty of not believing as the others did, but it had come as strange to him that he had not been allowed to follow his mentor on the biggest witch hunt of the century; one he had not taken part in, and yet had been given a promotion over the others who had.

It was not uncommon for Lucius to show favoritism towards Draco, naturally, seeing as he was his son, but that bit of information had been causing him sleepless nights, and days plagued with longing to ask his father for the real reason behind his exclusion.

But this, his meeting with Ginevra Weasley, could be his way to gain answers without having to go directly to the source. He should have distrusted her, and in his own way he did, but he’d had a hard time trusting his own kin as of late, so he would give her the benefit of the doubt. No one could be trusted, and yet all of their words were pieces to a puzzle that gave Draco what he wanted most; the truth behind it all.

The Hunter took a deep breath before turning, daring to look at her, and was happy to find her staring intently at the food. Her chain was too short to let her reach the table, Draco would have to either move it or let her go, and he knew which one of those he would chose.

He was happy for her distraction, her eyes being busy allowed him to think of a plan, because he knew she had made him move back to the second chair again; she’d done it with her overpowering beauty, and her amazing gaze. Beneath the surface, something large, impossibly frightening, lurked in the cold darkness of his soul, and she reached to it with her fire, and he was enthralled by her.

But, even with the fear of being under her snare, there was still one more subject that needed clarification before he left, for his own sanity, and that was the prophecy. The magical prophecy that included their magic-hating Lord. Draco needed to know. He had known why he’d been given the blank folder, but he had an inkling of a feeling that the lies he knew he’d been told had something to do with it, and this also left him wondering why his father would leave him so far in the dark if he knew Draco would learn about the woman’s marital status by the end of the interrogation.

Why give him this assignment if it was all a secret?

Why the blank file?

As he watched her stare longingly at the food, he wondered if it would be so easy to get the last of the answers he needed, so that his whirling brain could be at ease, and he could stop the paranoia that had been brought to life the day Harry Potter’s life had ended.

“Ginevra,” he said, drawing her eyes, though he avoided them. “Tell me what Trelawny said.”

She returned her gaze to the cheese and grapes, licked her lips with a dart of her pink tongue, and asked, “If I tell you, I get to eat, don’t I?”

“Yes. But,” she looked back at him at this pause, and he looked at a spot on the wall beside her head, “you have to answer all of my questions. Honestly.” She stared at him. He could feel it- her eyes on his. “If I feel that you are lying, you will be sent to the dungeons.” She took a few breaths, and nodded, and Draco made the mistake of returning her gaze as he nodded his own understanding of the agreement.

And, of her accord, Draco moved to her, knelt, pulled the key to her shackle from his pocket, and had his hand and eyes on her ankle before he came to his senses, and figured out what he had been willed to do.

He looked up to her, wide-eyed, and she responded quickly, bringing her foot up in a, barely, failed attempt to kick him in the face. His superior reflexes moved him out of harm's way, but put him right back in it as his hands moved to wrap around the witch’s neck just as she began an all-out attack on him.

Draco pushed her roughly onto her back, and straddled her flailing legs, keeping his face as far away from her clawing nails to yell, “I knew it! You are a witch!”

“No I’m not!” she croaked, putting her hands to his to pull at that with a surprising strength that Draco was still able to best.

“A whore of the Devil!” he boomed, and squeezed harder, but not hard enough to keep her from talking.

“I- am-not!” she screamed with a squeak.

“I can feel you controlling me with your eyes!” He proclaimed.

“It- it’s- in your mind!” she denied. “You- you are the witch, Bad Faith!”

Draco was flabbergasted at her claim. No one had ever called him a witch before. He let her go he was so surprised, and pushed himself away from her onto his arse as she sat up, gasping for air, “You,” she choked, then finished with an accusing finger, “are the witches! You- and those who follow Him- do the Devil’s work! Voldemort controls you all with his magic, and you let him! Trelawney said the prophecy claimed only one could live if the other died, and Voldemort used his witchcraft to find Harry and kill him first, and not one of you Hunters care!

“You work for the witches! You and your father are under His control!”

He stared at Ginevra as she shrieked, as her words made sense to him. The young Malfoy had been wondering why he’d been excluded, why he hadn’t been made part of the inner circle until the last hunt had finished. He’d tried to believe his father’s reasoning was the truth; his father, who could do the unspeakable without a shred of humanity.

In the days before his mother passed, perhaps Draco would have continued to turn the other cheek, for her sake. But now? Now that all he had to live for was doing his duty, and hunting witches to the end of the earth. He had one there with him, and she was a vital clue to his succeeding in his mission… Even if it meant hunting his Lord, and even his own father.

“Come,” Draco said, once again moving for her chains, but of his own will. Her eyes were now closed. She remained silent as he released her, as he said, “I believe you, Ginevra. Come eat.”

She opened her teary brown eyes to ask, “You do?”

He tossed the shackle aside, and held his hands out to her, “I want to know more. Tell me all of it. I promise I won’t write it down.”

She looked to his hands before slowly reaching out to take them, the Hunter helping her to her feet, and then turned the second chair back around so that she may sit in it. He pushed her chair close to the table, and she waited as he settled in across from her.

Looking at her expectant face, Draco nodded to the platter, offering, “Eat.”

She did. She grabbed a piece of sausage, a hunk of bread, and began to eat like a ravenous lioness. He allowed her a minute or two to take a few good bites and take a sip of the tea he poured her before asking, “Voldemort is a witch, you say?”

She nodded, then swallowed. “A dark sorcerer. The thing of nightmares… I have never seen anyone so frightening.”

Draco blinked. “I understand that he can be intimidating, but-”

“Can you not feel it?” she asked, giving him an incredulous stare. “Can you not feel his evil, you, who calls yourself a Witch Hunter? He is the Devil, Malfoy.”

Her conviction... If she were acting, she was the best he’d ever encountered. She shook, trembled, with fear, and her eyes filled with more tears.

“I- I did not feel it,” he admitted.

He began to assess his own skills as Hunter as Tom Riddle’s guilt was concerned. Draco might not have been very old, but he’d been raised by a Witch Hunter, and 22 years of practice gave one a certain eye for the art. His Lord was indeed a frightening man at times, but he was only so when it came scouring the Earth of its evil plague, and that was Draco’s plan.

Why would a witch want to kill other witches?

“I did not feel it because everyone is inherently evil,” he- he who trusted no one- explained. “We hunters are after those who use their evil for evil. We use our evil for good.”

“Is that what you call it?” she asked, obviously unconvinced that torturing people for answers wasn’t plain evil.

“What would you call it?”

“Cold-blooded murder.”

“So, you are not a witch, but you sympathize with the convicted?”

“No. I sympathize with the wrongly accused. You use your evil for evil, Draco.” She said his name easily, as well as easily avoiding confirming her own power. “But only because your father told you what you do is for the greater good. Because Voldemort said it was for the greater good. It is not so. Your Lord is killing for his own gain, and you are unwittingly helping him.

“I can see that you are good, Draco.” She leaned forward as she said this, staring him deep in the eyes. “I can see that you do want to help, want to change the world for the better, but you are injuring it. You need to stop Him.”

Draco looked over her face, her beautiful hair, dainty nose, and full, pink lips. Her eyes, though, had been locked onto his so long he’d passed back over the veil, and he was once again hypnotized by her, completely under her control; all of this occurring without his noticing.

She was perfect to him, even with her obvious affliction, which she’d claimed to be a figment of his imagination. All he wanted to do was comfort her, tell her all would be ok. Even with her dirt and grime he would touch her, hold her, have her, take her, and all of this was becoming unconscious realizations. His body knew it, his senses knew it, his subconscious knew he wanted her, and all of these things- combined with her gaze- made him ask this fateful question,

“How would I stop him?”

“Let me go,” she said, a small, almost triumphant, smirk on her lips.

“What would you do with your freedom?” he asked, honestly intrigued by this woman’s train of thought.

“I’ll stop Voldemort myself if I have to.”

“You and what army? Dumbledore’s Army? They’ve scattered since your husband passed. How will you find them in nothing but a nightgown in this weather?” He did not doubt her abilities, just her logic. She had no shoes, and the snow was a foot high. There was talk of another blizzard hitting them any day now.

“You’ll help me,” she answered simply, then took an orange from the platter.

“I cannot help you. Even if I decide to set you free, that is as far as I can extend my services, and at great personal cost .” His father would undoubtedly think him bewitched, or a witch himself, the man so convinced that everyone, excluding himself and his closest cohorts, was guilty to some degree.

That silence filled the room again, where she stared him dead in the eyes. They had a moment where they hit a wall in their communication… but she was intent on getting her way.

With her eyes glued to his during her entire slow, prowling, walk around the table, she lifted her nightgown to aid in her straddling his lap, lowering herself onto him gently before lifting her feet to rest the balls of her feet on the chair’s rungs. Draco, who had stared at her for far too long, far too often, let her do as she pleased; the man only able to watch as beautiful woman lifted her hands to pulled the sleeves of her gown down her shoulders and arms, exposing full breasts, a flat stomach, and plentiful hips.

In the dim light, Draco could still see her perfectly fine, and he was not at all disappointed at the display.

He should have stopped her, redressed her, or even dumped her from his lap, scandalized. But he didn’t, and even with her controlling him he would have allowed the act. Once he’d laid eyes on her he’d been taken, and would have caved nonetheless; magic or no, she had him.

There was something about her… something greater than magical.

His hands moved to her knees, thumbs on her inner thighs, and slowly trailed up her legs, under the gown, over the swell of her hips to squeeze the thin curve of her middle with both hands; gripping her soft skin and marveling at the feel. He pulled his eyes from hers to look at her breasts, and sense should have returned to him, but there was none to be regained.

Draco felt as if he could bare his soul to her; answer honestly any question she asked him; do any task, even risk his own skin- which he would normally never do- if she asked him to. He was gone, lost in her eyes and the lust that built in him at the feeling of her being astride him. He couldn’t care less about what he was, and what she was, because whatever she was, she was perfection.

“I can extend my services,” she said in a sultry whisper, “if you can do the same.” She ground herself down onto him, and he rewarded her with a deep groan before saying,  
“What do you need from me?” He gasped at the end of his question, because she’d rolled her hips on him again.

“I need a carriage. And fare to travel to London… But first, I need something else...” She ground once more, and Draco gripped her harder as she did so, lifting his hips up and into her, and she moaned as she set her lips to his, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He held her to him tightly by snaking his arms around her waist, standing to set her on the edge of the table. The witch greedily deepened the kiss by flicking her tongue at his bottom lip, the Hunter obliging her by parting his lips to allow her tongue to slide along his own, tasting the chamomile tea she’d been drinking, while at the same time trail one hand up her back to hold the nape of her neck. The other went lower, under her nightgown, pushing it higher onto her waist, to grab as much of her arse as possible to hold her bare heat against the tented front of his trousers.

She moaned into his mouth as he pressed himself along her opening, her hips pushing back with rolling gyrations that jerked every time her clit found his hardened length, the man becoming painfully aware of his need for her with every passing second.

When her hand reached down to begin undoing his trousers, it could not have been more exhilarating to the Hunter. He had never wanted a woman so badly in his life, and her willingness to give in to him stripped him of whatever sense he should have had. As she wrapped her hand around his aching prick, he felt pre-cum slip from the tip as he hissed his pleasure at her touch, bucking his hips into her hold.

Draco pulled away from their kiss just enough to look her in the eyes, finding that inviting fire within the darkness of her lust-blown pupils, seeing her need for him in her half-lidded stare; heard her need for him in every moan that passed her kiss-plumped lips as she continued to work him into a frenzy.

He needed her, badly, and he could think of nothing else.

Moving his hand from her neck to take the place of her hand on his cock, he held his cock and positioned it at her opening, the witch grabbing onto his shoulder for stability as she inched her way closer to him, silently begging him with her eyes and body.

He submitted to her pleas, pushing past the auburn curls, and into the overwhelming heat of her pussy, relishing in its ripples, its soft tightness; in the sound her wetness made while he entered her to the hilt, pulling back, and then slowly pushing into her again. He returned his hand to her neck, and placed one to her hip, all to keep her still as while he repeated his motions, ignoring everything that lay on the table, even the candle, whose flame flickered as the table moved.

Ginevra gave a loud gasp at the slow strokes he made, her grip on his shoulder tightened as she braced herself at his thrusts, her head tilted back against his hand as her eyes closed. His own eyes made a slow trek from her face, down to her pale neck where he paused to set his mouth to the inviting expanse of skin; tasting her with swirls of his tongue that added a tremble to her form, pulled a whimper from her throat.

Draco sucked the enticing spot long enough to leave a mark, and pulled back to finish his perusal of her body, starting with the reddening spot above her right clavicle, down her freckled chest to ample breasts that moved with his thrusts. They were topped with hardened light pink nipples, which Draco found as enticing as her neck, and he pulled her head as far back as he was able to without causing her too much discomfort, as well as moved his other hand to the tables surface- bracketing her side and keeping him upright in the process- and did to each nipple as he had to her neck; swirling his tongue around the buds with quick flicks, and sucking on them until another quake tore through her body, and a loud moan filled the room.

He matched her shudder, for her noises, and her taste, and the feeling of her squeezing him as her pleasure rose caused an aching low in his bollocks, which continued as her hands slid up his shoulders and neck to twine themselves into his hair and lightly drag her nails along his scalp; her hold aiding in keeping his mouth to her nipples.

“Draco.” She moaned his name, and it was like angel song; his mind comparing the sound of her voice to that of what the believers would hear, if there was anything to be heard. The man did not believe in much, but, for the moment, he believed her. Something in him told him that she had been more honest with him than any other person on his side of things had ever been.

The Hunter righted himself, reluctantly, but pulled her with him to kiss her again, wanting to catch any other words she would give him while also moving their position so as to quicken his pace; the sensations all collapsing on him as he felt his climax tugging for release.

“Good, God, yes!” she exclaimed. “Draco. Please don’t stop.”

Her begging did little to help his situation, but he wanted to please this woman, this witch. He was compelled to do so, and so he did as she begged, and he waited until he felt her still in harms, as he felt her dig her nails into the backs of his shoulder and neck, as she came with her eyes boring into his.

And when his own release hit him, while his eyes held hers, he felt everything slip away. Everything. The last thing registering in his mind being that she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen… and then there was nothing.

()()(*)()()

Draco’s face was cold. His nose, his cheeks...

His ears felt like icicles, but the rest of him was warm, covered in blankets...

These were the first things that came to his awakening mind. The second thing that came to him was the sound of muted horse’s hooves on a snowy, rocky path. The third, the toss and jostle of a cart.

He blinked back the last light of the day showing through the snow clouds and trees above him, and as the fog of his mind cleared he was able to look around. Down to his feet, where he saw them covered in pounds of thick furs. Left and right, where he saw the low walls of the cart he lay in. He looked up and back, towards the driver, to see two hooded figures sitting on the bench, face-front in the oncoming snow storm.

One figure turned around to look at him as he rolled over with a groan, still confused. He was trying to rack his brain for information as to how he’d come to be in the carriage, only for it all to come to him as the first figure pulled down their hood, the blonde once again staring into the beautiful eyes of the redheaded sorceress he’d been interrogating… he’d been shagging.

He blinked at her, mind blown, shaking his head as he tried to connect the dots between his being between her legs to waking up in the cart, but nothing came.

She smiled at him, then turned to the person driving the team of four horses through the snowy forest and patted their arm. They turned to her, and she nodded in Draco’s direction. The driver removed their hood and turned back to look at him, and the Witch Hunter came face-to-face with none other than Harry James Potter; scar, spectacles, midnight-black hair, smile and all.

“Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” The formerly dead man held a hand back and out to the blonde that recognized him from wanted posters. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

(*)  
Burn

Burn me alive  
Set me on fire  
And watch me die  
Burn me alive  
Watch me resurrect  
Right before your eyes  
(*)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know, right?! I am aware that this could lead to something else, but I do not foresee a sequel. Sorry. I could go so many places with this, but a part of me just wants you, the reader, to fill in your own blanks. It’s so much more fun and gratifying that way.
> 
> Unless you beg, then I might think about it.
> 
> A/N: I have the best BETA in the world, I was BOTWP. She deals with me, and that makes her some kind of saint or something. She’s also an amazing writer, so you should check her out!


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